Clogs and Clutters
by AmityRavenclawElf
Summary: Regarding the future of Mike Teavee, as well as those of the others. Sort of an exploration of where I think their characters will go. Slight Mike/Violet, sort of. Also a bit of maybe stalking, because Mike is good at computers. This was going to be a one-shot, but people want me to expand on it, so there's more coming! Mostly based on the 2005 movie. Mostly. There is angst!
1. Chapter 1

_"Regarding little Mike Teavee_

 _We very much regret that we_

 _Shall simply have to wait and see_

 _If we can get him back his height_

 _But if we can't it serves him right."_

 _..._

Because it was the first of August, and because the first-of-the-month had been the same _every_ month for the past few years, Mike was not surprised, when he finally had to leave his bedroom for the sake of body functions, to find a large cardboard box waiting for him in the hallway.

 _Lifetime supply. Yeah, thanks a lot._

Mike hated chocolate, his dad was allergic, and his mom had lost her taste for it (or at least for Wonka's stuff) after The Incident, but the boxes still came, month by month. As promised.

His parents had had the brilliant idea that it would be Mike's responsibility to hand-donate each box to the local preschool, since they were looking for every opportunity to make him leave the house. Apparently, something of what Wonka's slaves had been preaching about had hit home for Mr. Teavee, and he had won over Mrs. Teavee as well. Typical. But they couldn't _make_ him go anywhere; right now, they were both teaching summer school, and when they got home, they would be preparing for the regular school year.

They had both learned not to try to take away his computer or his video games, not to do any of that Parent Stuff, because he could be a disciplinary nightmare when he wanted to be, and they just didn't have the time for that. So, they were resigned to his reclusiveness, so long as he didn't openly defy them. Which meant that he kept the boxes hidden under his bed until the school year started up again, at which point he _had_ to leave the house (It was that or waste his time in truancy court.), and then he just threw them away en route to the school building.

Like he was going to present himself in public unnecessarily. Five and a half years ago, he had left home for what was at best supposed to be a boring tour (resulting from his need to prove that he was the best hacker in the entire world, which he _had_ ) and at worst supposed to be a boring parade of whimsy thinly veiling a middle aged man's need for attention. And he had come home seven feet tall and in need of a dietary coach.

Because Wonka and his slaves had had a secret plan to enforce their own morals on a group of children through physical violence.

Sure, Wonka had paid for his medical attention, his recovery to a comparatively normal size. (At least, Charlie Bucket had done so, using Wonka's stationery and bank account.) But they couldn't exactly un-stretch his entire freaking body; they could only give him back surgery to bring him back to a human-ish height, and skin cream to deal with the stretch marks, and a meal plan to make sure he wasn't so _flat_ anymore.

Mike had changed schools (and skipped two grades, while he was at it; he had always been too smart for those rugrats anyway), changed all of his online usernames, but Wonka's work was done and impossible to take back.

Even five and a half years after Golden-Ticket-Gate, the news and the Internet still somehow cared about the five winners. Cared so much that they made Mike care. They made Mike keep track. They made Mike use up tabs…screw that, use up entire windows, use up an entire laptop, following the progress of his kindred suckers.

He was privy to every news article updating the curious public on Augustus's diet.

Apparently, Mrs. Gloop, like Mike's own mother, was _over_ candy now; she made a whole big tearful deal (to half a million cameras) about how important it was to her that Augustus be healthy, how important it was that all the children of the world be healthy, and how Wonka was an evil man for selling chocolate in the first place, and something something fruits and vegetables count your calories. Mr. Gloop, the butcher, seemed at most lukewarm to the whole thing.

Augustus, though, was _built_ now. He was before-and-after-picture-gold. There were even articles about him called "From Chunk to Hunk". Articles. Plural. As in more than one journalist got paid to make that pun. And were proud enough of it to keep their names on it.

Every article congratulated Augustus on his diet, and on his humanitarian efforts (donating his lifetime supply of chocolate to the less fortunate). Mike wondered if they just…didn't see that Augustus wasn't really smiling anymore. He wasn't babbling in interviews, listing every flavor that had ever been in a chocolate bar ever. The passion wasn't there anymore. _Someone_ had to notice; Mike had never even spoken to Augustus, and he noticed.

Not that Mike pitied him; he was the idiot who trusted food to be able to consistently fill the holes in his life.

Then there was Veruca, who, in the factory, had mostly struck Mike as obnoxious, with her shrill demands, and cleverer than anyone gave her credit for ("Maybe you could put her in a county fair," she had said of Violet, to Mrs. Beauregarde's _face_. Mike had almost laughed.).

Despite the fact that Mr. Salt never said anything about his daughter and Veruca rarely said anything about her parents, it was clear that they had had a falling out. Every time Veruca was sighted (and yes, they used the word "sighted"), it was in some foreign country, attending some wild party or participating in some dangerous stunt. The press ate it up: the spoiled rich girl gone rogue. And if anything, Veruca's smile was more real now than ever; whenever she was photographed, the thrill of adventure was in her eyes. None of that practiced, boarding school smile from before.

The jokes were predictable and dry. "I guess she finally snapped." "I just wonder who's feeding all of her pets." And when she conceded to being interviewed, Veruca went right along with them. "The servants are, I suppose," she would drawl, still slightly out of breath from whatever they had caught her doing. She was a good sport about the not-completely-lighthearted ribbing at her expense; she knew that she was rich, and she knew that she was spoiled, and she knew that everything she did, said, and thought was colored by those things. "Do you really blame me for wanting to try the dive myself?" she asked once, dusting herself off and shrugging out of her parachute. "I got to fall down Wonka's garbage funnel! It was great fun."

She was a good sport, that is, until she thought something was unfair. Until someone accused her of outlandish substance abuse, or assumed aloud that she engaged in lewd behaviors. Then her lips would purse up in that same way, and she was Veruca Salt, the little brute, again, red-faced and indignant. Because what she did in public was for the public, but what was private belonged to her, and she let no one forget that even for a moment.

Since neither she nor her parents spoke on what split them up, Mike took it upon himself to assume that Mr. Salt stopped giving her whatever she wanted and Veruca decided that Life would withhold nothing from her.

It was always exciting to see an update on Veruca; each time, it was like a tiny installment of some adventure series.

Violet Beauregarde's life was more of a dramatic saga.

First, it had been suing her mother when the woman tried to force her into cosmetic surgery. Apparently, Violet liked being blue, or at least she didn't mind it. Then, she had sued Wonka for turning her blue in the first place. (Again, Mike was pretty sure it had been Charlie who convinced Wonka to just pay her the money without making a full case of it.) Then, while she was on a roll, Violet decided to enter the Olympics. And she won. Twice. And now, whenever an interviewer brought up Violet's trip to the factory, he or she was promptly spoken over: "I'm a two-times gold medalist. I'm a world champion. We're not going to make this about a contest I won when I was eleven."

It was probably her self-confidence and the fact that she was the only other person to have been physically marked by the goings on in the factory that made Mike so interested in Violet Beauregarde. She was blue, and she chose to stay blue, although she dyed her hair purple.

Mike supposed that it could be argued that he was sort of stalking her. But not really. He didn't have access to any pictures of her that the general public didn't have access to. The most he ever did to alter her life was delete her personal information from risky websites. That was something most people paid money for. And he couldn't help it if he was technologically gifted enough that he could stumble across things like her social security number and her Internet history by accident. By accident!

But that was why he had a separate laptop for his Golden Five research.


	2. Chapter 2

When Mike's gaming session was interrupted by Mr. Teavee rapping at his door, he was not surprised; he expected that this was one of those periodical reaching-outs that both of his parents did, never with the actual intention of hearing a perspective from Mike, but just for the sake of being able to say that they had tried to reach out. Mike figured that it was important to them, on some level, that he be a rebellious teen, because if he wasn't, then that meant that they were just bad parents. And far be it from him to let them get all guilty when they regularly dropped thousands of dollars on new game systems, so rebellious teen it was.

He was not surprised that his father knocked.

He _was_ surprised that his father was accompanied by Violet Beauregarde on the other side of the door.

She looked... _better_ in person than she did onscreen, and she didn't look bad onscreen. Only, it was like cameras were somehow programmed to undersell her best features- her huge _eyes_ and perky _cheekbones_ -but here, in three dimensions, they were...

That is, her skin was still very blue. Not as blue as it had turned in the factory, but still only half a shade lighter than a Cool Ranch Doritos bag. That her hair, now shoulder-length and woven into two braids, was bright purple just made her look more like a cartoon character, if anything.

Right. Like a cartoon character. And there was no intimidation to cartoon characters at all, so he could just go ahead and breathe.

She was wearing tracksuit bottoms (Some things never changed.) and a gray t-shirt, but she also had on roller-skates. _That's right;_ her most recent interview _had_ said that she was trying to break some record for wearing roller-skates. Two records, actually: time worn and distance traveled. Apparently two Olympic gold medals still wasn't enough.

"She wanted to see you," Mr. Teavee said, in his usual vaguely put-upon way.

"Okay," Mike answered. A one-word reply; his parents _hated_ one-word replies.

Mr. Teavee sighed, rolled his eyes (like _he_ was the rebellious teenager) and left the two of them alone.

Violet looked him up and down, and Mike felt suddenly uneasy, because it was clear from her expression as well as just general knowledge of Violet's nature that whatever came out of her mouth next would be absolutely honest. He knew that he didn't have the build of someone who was supposed to be doorframe-tall; he knew that he had the look of an upright noodle and the posture of one, too, and that his nose still looked kind of flat. He knew all of those things, but he wasn't eager to hear her say them.

After she had given him a full scan, her eyes met his, and she assessed, "You got screwed over." After a beat of silence, she added, "Bet you're surprised I stopped by."

"Well, obviously I know who _you_ are," Mike noted, "but since you didn't manage to stay on the tour for very long, I'm surprised you even remembered me."

"I remember that you were a smart*ss," Violet said flatly, then skated past him into his room and sat down on the bed like they were actually friends.

"What are you doing here?" Mike asked, closing his door and settling warily into the rolling chair beside his desk.

"I've been skating all over the country," she said. "Everybody knows that."

"But what are you doing _here_?"

"About to beat you at Halo 3, probably. Pass me a controller." When he didn't move from his spot, she stared at him again. "I mean it, you _really_ got screwed over. And that's coming from someone who's been peeing blue for the past five years. Why didn't you press charges?"

Mike shrugged. "I'm too lazy to go to court."

"I'd have thought you of all people would take the time to mildly inconvenience 'Body Horror for Ten-Year-Olds' Station," Violet drawled. Her tone had always been sharp, before, and sometimes it still was, but now she had frequent lapses of dry deadpanning. Mike had noticed that from her interviews. It was insanely attractive. Not that that was the sort of thing he thought about. Or _was_ thinking about. _Stop thinking about it!_

"Why, because he stretched me?"

"'You're the little devil who cracked the system'," Violet said, quoting Wonka word for word and even reproducing his infantile way of speaking.

"You remember that?"

"I have a _very_ good memory." And she was sharp again, braggadocious. Hundreds of blogs analyzed every instance of her boasting in an interview, saying it was a defense mechanism. Thousands more said she was just rotten and obnoxious and bought into her own hype.

"But somehow you didn't remember what had just happened to Augustus Gloop before you decided to chew that stupid meal gum." Mike couldn't say why he was provoking Violet; he didn't want her to be angry at him. He just didn't know how else to engage someone but to annoy them. It was either point out her flaws or compliment her, and he was worried that any compliment he gave would somehow hint to her that he had a folder on one of his laptops that was full of clips of her doing gymnastics at the Olympics and winning karate tournaments and chewing out (no pun intended) reporters who focused on her magazine covers instead of her gold medals. So, the only real choice was to annoy.

"I chewed a piece of gum," Violet said with narrowed eyes. " _You_ jumped into a machine. After _three_ of us were already axed off."

"Wonka invented a _teleporter_ , and he was going to use it for _candy marketing_ ," Mike insisted. No one who hadn't been in the factory ever believed him about the teleporter.

"You think the world is ready for teleporters?" Violet demanded. "The stalking industry is already thriving."

Mike hoped he wasn't blushing. _She doesn't know; she says_ everything _pointedly. That wasn't directed at you. There's no way she knows._ "I don't think it's really an industry."

"No, they do it for free. Augustus and I have been emailing for three years now, by the way." This was a new topic, with no segue between, and she was just...blinking at him, waiting for his answer.

"Great," was his answer. "Are you skydiving partners with Veruca Salt, too?"

"You know, when Augustus learned that the penalty for being fat was getting almost drowned by a waistcoated psychopath, it made him _less_ of a jerk*ss."

Mike shrugged again. "Well, some people aren't resilient like me, I guess."

"That's what makes you so _creepy_ , though!" Violet said emphatically, and now Mike was sure that his ears were turning red. "You just _don't care_ , because you think you're some genius."

Mike raised one eyebrow. "I am some genius."

"Yeah," Violet said. "And you still got screwed over." She held out her hand for the game controller again. "Halo 3."

He passed her the controller.

* * *

(A/N) So, what do you guys think? Because I will straight up rewrite this chapter if you have reasons you think this is OOC for anyone. Also, let me know your guesses for the future of this fic.


	3. Chapter 3

Augustus caught himself staring vacantly at an empty glass that had once held a protein shake.

Again. Oops.

He had developed a tendency to zone out when he looks at cylindrical objects; he would start to imagine himself trapped in them. It was completely dumb and not something he told anyone _because_ it was completely dumb. As far as they knew, he had learned to swim for athletic purposes. _It's such good exercise! It does a body good!_

Augustus looked at himself. He was handsome, now, certainly; things had gotten so bad inside his mind that he couldn't even look at pictures of his old self. Especially not when everyone around him treated his weight loss as if he was only just now worthy of existing. When they weren't treating it as the funniest joke they'd ever heard. _Remember that fat kid who won the Golden Ticket? Here's a picture of him now. I know, right?_

His mother loved it when the talk shows discussed him that way; she actively sent his story to every outlet she could find, and when he aired, the television volume was set as high as it would go; there wasn't a corner of the house that was safe from her pride in her handiwork.

Of course, she had loved him before. Obviously she had.

But that was hard to remember sometimes when she spoke with such relish about how _bad_ he had been.

She was just proud of him.

He was proud of himself; it had been _hard_ to cut all of his favorite things out of his life. It had been...worse than hard. It had been painful. Tearful. It had made him wonder if _anything_ was worth it, if maybe his life was completely empty without the flavors and fascinations, if there was even anything _to_ him when he wasn't eating or planning on eating. Maybe he was just an empty case for food, like the pigs' intestines that his father used to make sausage. It had felt like he was rewriting his entire identity over that diet. But his mother reminded him that they were proving a point to Wonka, that hateful recluse. They were proving what the Gloops were made of.

It had been difficult. It had been so difficult to shed his compulsions, but so easy to adopt new ones. The feeling of lactic acid in his legs as he ran laps replaced the feeling of fullness after snacks and meals. When he was tempted to go out and buy candy, he blended every healthy item in their fridge and drank it. No amount filled him, but the practices consumed the hours between bedtimes, and that was all he needed; to distract himself until he could sleep again.

Mrs. Gloop came into the kitchen, singing to herself, and kissed him on the cheek before leaving with a cup of yogurt.

Augustus smiled and didn't wipe the lipstick off until she had gone.

He could tell her any of this. He could call _anyone_ \- everyone at school wanted to be his friend, all of a sudden. There was no shortage of ears, but for some reason...

He checked his email to see if there was a new one from Violet. They had gotten into contact, and she was surprisingly easy to talk to. Not that he confessed his dissatisfaction to her, either, but she seemed perceptive enough to guess at a lot of it. It was cathartic to see her acerbic responses to his everyday life. He felt validated. And she seemed to enjoy his awe at her accomplishments; they were the some of the only things that he could feel excitement for, anymore. A flavorless Saturday could be transformed by news that she had won another challenge, competition, or the occasional court case. Unlike Veruca Salt's rather worrying descent into madness, Violet was ascending more and more each day. She seemed superhuman. She even had blue skin.

There was no email from Violet.

There was, however...

That was interesting.

Charlie Bucket?

...

"And it isn't even cost effective!" Mike ranted. "That's the thing; he wants to use it to sell chocolate, but it makes the chocolate smaller!"

"Think he cloned the Oompa Loompas?" Violet asked while firing mercilessly at Mike's onscreen character. "They all look the same, and he clearly lied about where they're from."

"Human cloning and slave labor," Mike snorted. "He'll have the UN _and_ the AAAS on his-"

"Grenade!" Violet shouted triumphantly, then returned to the topic at hand, "You know no one's going to do a thing to stop him. Pretty much _all_ corporations use _some_ kind of slave labor."

"Real life is sickening," Mike grumbled.

"Yeah, thank goodness you're so smart and above it all."

He took the opportunity to shoot down her character while she was rolling her eyes.

"Petty," Violet said.

"Your eyes weren't on the prize."

"How would you like it if I shot you down every time you paused to ogle me?" She didn't take her eyes off the screen as her character respawned.

Mike couldn't have formed words if he tried. Fortunately, he also couldn't try. So they were silent for a moment.

"What sort of music do you listen to?" she asked him. "You look like you listen to metal, but you act like you listen to mopey acoustic."

"I don't really seek out music to listen to."

There was another brief silence.

"You're bad at conversation," Violet said flatly, still not taking her eyes off the screen.

"You're bad at Halo," Mike retaliated.

Violet shifted her weight, and Mike was briefly terrified that she was about to leave (His heart actually faltered.), but she was only removing a cell phone from her pocket. She paused the game with her other hand. "I got an email from Bucket," she said.

"Bucket?" Mike repeated lamely, his mind mostly occupied with trying to justify his reaction to the eventuality of her departure.

" _Charlie_ Bucket," she explained impatiently.

"What, is Bucket your nickname for him?"

"Just check your email; he probably sent you one, too." She pointed at his computer.

Oh. Oh no. She was definitely the type to make sure she could see the screen over his shoulder, and there was a chance he might have something incriminating hiding behind his computer's sleep mode.

And his mother was using his other computer for school stuff because her own had been dropped. Down a flight of stairs.

"What does yours say?" he deflected.

Fortunately curious as well, Violet read.


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as she was through the giant factory doors, Veruca threw her coat to the ground.

She knew that she was probably wearing a somewhat disdainful look. She hadn't been here in years, but she could tell that this entryway hadn't changed a bit. In fact, it felt smaller, less like a mysterious building of wonderment and treats and more a sort of silly place for a sort of silly man who probably took influence from _The Cabinet of Doctor_ _Caligari_ in terms of zany design choices and un-economic use of space.

"So you made it in," observed the lone figure there to greet her. He was smiling in a friendly way, speaking in a friendly way. Charlie Bucket had grown taller, had filled out just enough not to look like he was actively dying, but more than that, he had lost that slouching, apologetic demeanor in favor of unabashed cheerfulness. Probably a result of constantly having his bizarrest fantasies fed and supported, now that he was here. Veruca supposed that he had grown rather handsome, as well, but that was not the sort of thing that really mattered to her.

"Am I the first one here?" she asked, walking past him because he seemed content to just stand around the entryway all day.

"So far, yes," he answered, keeping pace with her long strides. "The others had to rely on public transport, you know."

"I'm sure." She checked her watch. "Well, I'm forty minutes early. D'you think I can have another go down the garbage chute?"

"Er, probably not, no," Charlie replied.

She sent him an icy look. "What, you think I'll be a bother to the stupid squirrels? Or is the incinerator actually on today?"

"Veruca," Charlie sighed. "No one here wants to harm you."

She smiled. "Like they didn't last time, right?" She flicked a speck of lint from his lapel, and he blushed. "Is a waistcoat a part of the dress code, here? No one told me."

"It was a birthday gift from Mr. Wonka," Charlie said.

"I'd never have guessed." She unbuttoned the sweater that she wore under her coat and tossed that to the floor, too, without breaking stride. "Forgot how hot you keep it here."

"Well," Charlie said patiently, "the Oompa Loompas prefer a warm climate."

"Sure." The corridor forked off. "Which way are we going?"

Charlie took the lead. Veruca followed just a half-step behind.

"Mr. Wonka is very excited to see all of you again," he said.

"He is? That's a bad omen."

"He wants it to be a pleasant visit."

"You're positive of that, are you?"

"It's not a trap, Veruca."

"I'll just bet," she said with a grin. She was sure it was a trap. In fact, she _hoped_ it was a trap.

They reached another fork in the hallway, except this time, it was manned.

"Oh, wonderful," Veruca drawled, staring down at the little man with the silly hair. These workers (she _refused_ to call them "Oompa Loompas") also seemed even smaller now than they had years ago.

"He will lead you the rest of the way," Charlie told her. "I have to go back to the entryway to greet the others when they-"

"Sure," Veruca was already interrupting. She turned to the little worker. "Take me, then."

But the thing turned to Charlie first, only starting to walk away after his nod of encouragement.

Veruca followed.

...

"You mean he actually convinced _you_ to come?" Mike said. "He actually convinced your mom?"

"No," Augustus replied, finishing his trek to the door and standing beside Mike. "She wouldn't talk to me for two days when I told her I was going."

"Hmm." That's right, Augustus had just turned eighteen; he could just _leave_ without taking hours to convince his parents.

"Why are you waiting at the door?" Augustus asked.

Mike shifted uncomfortably. "Violet said she'd be another fifteen minutes. She wouldn't take a plane because she knew they would make her take off her roller skates."

"You're waiting for Violet?" This perked him up.

Well, now he felt stupid about it. And also territorial, because he was a freaking cocktail of hormones, and he never left his room enough to learn how to deal with them. Which made him feel even more stupid. "Maybe. But I don't know; if she starts to cut it close, I might just go ahead in. In fact, I'll just go in now; she'll probably be offended if I wait at the door for her like it's the 1950's or Canada or something."

"That's true." Augustus deflated.

Mike sighed and pushed the giant doors open, simultaneously starting up the recording device under the collar of his shirt. The recording device, incidentally, was how he had convinced _his_ parents to let him come; there was a high chance that anything Wonka said would be incriminating either in civil court or in criminal court.

But it wasn't Wonka waiting in the entryway, and he honestly should have been expecting that. (Wonka was probably going to arrive after a Pop Rocks fireworks display spelling out his name or something.) No, instead, it was Charlie Bucket waiting for them in his own tailor-made Wonka waistcoat. His was blue, instead of burgundy or whatever. (And this rubbed Mike the wrong way, because blue was Violet's color and also the color of the sweater he himself was wearing, which was not related at all.)

"Mike and Augustus!" Charlie exclaimed, looking genuinely excited to see them. "I'm so glad both of you made it in!"

"Why? Were there booby traps in the front yard?" Mike snarked, because right off the bat he couldn't help himself.

"Of course not," Charlie answered, striding forward to firmly shake Mike's hand, then Augustus's. "Have either of you been in touch with Violet?"

Naturally, he was only asking to be polite; it was now a known fact that he had been with Violet when they discovered the email, because Veruca had discovered _her_ email hours before them and let it slip to the million camera crews who were always a block away from her. Five minutes after Violet read her email aloud to Mike, Mr. Teavee was yelling at newspeople at their front door.

"She's on her way," Mike said. "She said another fifteen minutes or so." He had to fight off a smile, imagining how Violet would skate literal and figurative circles around Charlie Bucket when she arrived. And she also wouldn't notice that he looked worlds more fit and attractive than Mike did. As did Augustus. Her close friend.

"So, why did you call for this reunion?" Augustus asked.

Charlie paused, with a dumb cryptic expression. "All in good time," he said.

"All in right now," Mike said, half-groaning in a way that he noted sounded just too teenagery.

"We'd like to tell all of you at once," Charlie told him delicately.

Mike rolled his eyes. He really was erring on the side of adolescent moodiness today. It was this place.

"Lead the way, then, host," Augustus suggested.

Charlie did lead the way. "How have the both of you been?"

"Splendid," Augustus said. "I've learned to swim." So he had a bit of a snarky side, too. "And I've been sort of famous."

"And I sort of haven't," Mike added. "Thank God."

"Well, that's not entirely true," was Charlie's generous reply. "I did read that you take some university classes online."

"Stop the presses," Mike joked. Yes, being a studious recluse did dissuade too much media attention.

"So, Veruca Salt is already here?" Augustus surmised.

"Oh, yes." Charlie smiled, full of good humor. A regular Beaver Cleaver, this one. "She's here. And I know we've all been hearing about her. Such interesting pastimes."

Mike didn't want to agree with Charlie Bucket, so he kept quiet...until they turned a corner and ran into...

"Oh great. It's one of your cloned slaves."

"They're not slaves," Charlie chided.

"Didn't say anything about the 'clone' thing," Mike murmured.

"Please take Augustus and Mike to wait in the green room with Veruca, and then tell Mr. Wonka that they've arrived."

The Oompa Loompa did a weird bow thing, then took both him and Augustus by the forefinger (Geez, this man was _tiny_.) and walked briskly away with them in tow.

"If you're being held against your will," Mike said to the little worker man, "you can tell us. If you're being exploited or-"

The little man chuckled.

"Well, that doesn't bode well," Mike sighed.

Augustus shook his head in agreement and even shuddered a bit.

...

Violet had learned to climb stairs in roller skates.

She didn't even wobble; she was a natural.

Somehow, the steady flow of praise and positive reinforcement that she kept running through her head didn't make a dent in her apprehension and self doubt as she neared the front door to Willy Freaking Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Again.

She could remember the first time vividly. The cold. The stupid matching haircuts. The singing puppets. (Thank the cosmos there hadn't been a repeat of that last one.) And now she was returning blue, with purple hair, dressed in a t-shirt from the Olympics, a pair of jean shorts, and her roller skates. Her hair was longer and ponytailed. She really felt like herself.

She was Violet Freaking Beauregarde. Emancipated. World champion. And she wasn't ten years old anymore. She threw the door open.

Charlie Bucket was waiting in the entryway all creepy like this was The Shining or something.

He was hot, actually. Healthy-looking, with a shine in his eyes like he received hugs from his mother on a daily basis.

 _Whoa. Mommy issues,_ Violet noted, stopping her train of thought there. _I'll save that for later._

"Honey, I'm home," Violet joked, and she was almost smug to note that it made Bucket blush.

"Glad to see you made it in okay, Violet," he said.

"I don't think we're really on a first name basis," Violet said, skating past him. "So, Salt is already here, huh?"

"How'd you know?"

"Her coat is on the floor. It's plainly visible."

"Right. Violet, could you slow down?"

She did, mainly to show off that she could.

"We want this to be a pleasant visit for everyone," Bucket said, approaching her with a placating look.

"Well, make it one then. Nobody's stopping you."

"You seem angry."

She turned an astonished look on him. "Maybe I have a right to be?" she suggested.

"Of course you do," Bucket hurried to concede. Violet's first thought was something along the lines of _Concessions are for losers,_ but she identified her mother in her words and looked at Bucket more carefully. There was an almost cloying amount of genuineness in his eyes, which was a quality that Violet had never once seen in Wonka's. Bucket was something else; an ally, potentially, if it came down to enemies and allies. He had a devotion to Wonka, but he also had a moral compass. He might help take Wonka down, if he saw the man's corruption for what it was. "I never meant to suggest otherwise. We're both incredibly thankful that the four of you even agreed to come, all things considered."

It took all of Violet's training in butt-kissery to not dryly repeat 'All things considered' while pointing to her blue face. Instead, she gave a casual shrug and said, "Well, you're welcome. Where are we going?"

...

"Oh. I get it," Mike said. "Green room."

The green room was a jungle. The leaves and trees and things were probably made of candy of some sort, but ostensibly, it was just a jungle. The room's size was unknown; it looked as though it went on forever in every direction except for behind (as behind them was the wall and door through which they had entered). Likewise, the ceiling was so high as to be inconsequential, and it appeared to be made of glass so that natural light poured in. It was a testament to Wonka's annoyingness that Mike was _indoors_ thinking 'I'm not outdoorsy enough for this'.

"Oh, did you two come together?" an English drawl was audible from the treetops. "That's quite cute." Mike looked up and, of course, there was Veruca Salt.

"What are you doing?" Augustus asked her.

"Climbing a tree. What else am I going to do?" Veruca pulled herself a branch higher. She was pretty nimble; Mike wondered what her boarding schools' physical education had been like.

Augustus backed up, warily, closer to the wall. "You're insane! You'll make something terrible happen!"

Veruca made an indifferent sound. "Terrible things happen no matter what. This tree grows marshmallows, you know. I wanted to see up close. They actually bud and blossom."

Somehow, seeing Veruca, in person, climbing a tree full of marshmallows for the sheer thrill of misbehaving detracted from the girl's bad*ss factor in Mike's mind, which was probably why he smirked and murmured, "Careful; there might be squirrels up there."

He did not count on Veruca hearing him, or on her dropping from the tree so quickly and with such a successful landing (impressive, given her altitude) that her bad*ss factor abruptly returned.

She stomped up to him, and she was shorter, but her eyes were blue flames, and Mike ended up backing up into the wall beside Augustus.

"What's that?" Veruca asked coolly. "I don't think I heard you. What did you say?"

"Nothing," Mike said.

Veruca's face split into a wide smile, like when they were young in this same factory, and she said, "Great."

Mike frowned when she turned her back.


	5. Chapter 5

When a door opened on the other side of the green room (Well, the green room extended pretty far, so it was more like an inexplicable door seemingly to nowhere opened in the _middle_ of the green room.), the three of them were quick to surmise that Wonka was ready for them now.

Mike groaned. "What is this? A wormhole? Portal?" He looked to Veruca and Augustus in hopes that they would match his reaction, but they both looked resigned to basic physics being 86'ed in favor of chaos, here. "There is _nothing_ behind this door, and yet it opens to a hallway!"

"You should see the place they take the chocolate to after it goes up the pipes," Augustus said grimly.

"Are we really just writing all of this off as standard whimsy?" Mike demanded, walking circles around the door. "This is upsetting! I am upset!"

"Well, jot a sad entry in your diary and come on, then," Veruca said, ambling through the doorway like she owned the place. She paused on the threshold, twisted to face them, and dryly added, "One of you could have held it open for me."

"It was already open," Augustus said.

"Chivalry is dead," Veruca sighed.

Augustus followed her out into the hallway, and Mike was the last out. The door closed itself behind them, which was honestly the single easiest-to-explain thing that had ever happened in this building, but it still somehow felt like adding insult to injury.

Since the corridor was entirely linear, Veruca confidently led the way. Mike and Augustus fell behind.

"Time to see the man himself," Mike said.

Augustus nodded curtly, clearly not in the mood to talk about Willy Wonka, which wasn't great seeing as they were at Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory on the personal invitation of Willy Wonka.

Well, if moping was the game, Mike could mope.

They walked in silence, Veruca humming a Beatles-y song up ahead.

But then.

The sound of roller skates making long strides, and a voice calling out "On your left!", and then Violet more or less crashed into their backs, throwing an arm each around Mike and Augustus and slowing her skate-stride so that she walked in-between them.

"You made it," Augustus said to her brightly, while Violet laughed at how well she had surprised them and Mike coasted on her proximity and on the victory that, since _he_ was the one to her right, she had technically greeted him first.

"Place bets now on whether Wonka still thinks top-hats are cool," Violet said conspiratorially.

Veruca slowed to a stop and turned around almost lazily. "Violet," she observed, approaching them with her hands on her hips. "Fashionably late, I see. Are we still best friends?"

"I don't remember getting invited to skydive," Violet said, dropping her arms from around Augustus and Mike in order to cross them and raising her chin to match Veruca's haughty posture with her own. (Veruca's cool feline energy faced with Violet's electric, bird-of-prey energy.)

"You would've only been bored."

"Really?"

"You'd have choked on your gum."

Violet cracked a smile. "You ashhole."

"And no one would notice," Veruca drawled on, "because you're already blue in the face." She couldn't quite finish the sentence before her smirk seeped through. She closed the distance between herself and the rest of them.

Violet and Veruca shook hands, and though they were both grinning, Mike was given the impression that they were also each squeezing the other's hand extremely hard in the hopes of getting one of them to release first. These two were so weird. Did they like each other or not?

"So! The gang's all back together!" Charlie jogged to catch up with them, and Veruca's smile fell into the same vaguely bored look she had been wearing before, and Violet rolled her eyes before fixing her face into a politely cheerful mask and turning to face Bucket.

"Guess so," she agreed. "Our host is up that way, I assume?" She pointed up the hall. Surprisingly, she seemed to be actively choosing to be nice to him. It was almost disappointing.

"At the end of the hall," Charlie confirmed.

"I have to ask," Mike said. "Will there be a fireworks display before, during, or after we see him?"

"No," Charlie said resolutely.

"Singing puppets?" Veruca asked.

"Nnno," Charlie said, less distinctly.

"They were animatronics, not puppets," Mike said, eyeing Charlie with distrust. "Will there be singing _animatronics?"_

Charlie looked like he was burying a smile. "No comment."

...

"It took five years for me to get that song out of my head," Mike marveled as the animatronics, now in pieces from overly-vigorous celebratory dancing, were awkwardly removed from the room by Oompa Loompas, "and now it's back."

The room at the end of the hall was, apparently, a dining room; it had a long table with many chairs, as if anyone here ever had guests, and several whimsical contraptions puttering around the walls and furniture, probably for conveying food to each dining spot.

"The remix was unnecessary," Augustus said sourly.

"Dunno what you're talking about," Veruca said, so dryly that her vocal fry could peel an orange (or whatever fruit the English preferred). "I'd say it was a bop and a half. When they came apart at the joints? Loved it."

"I know, right?!" The voice came from right behind them, and it was exactly the same voice that it had been years ago: unnecessarily high and childish, like someone auditioning to be the host on one of those fever dream kid shows of the eighties. "Perfect payoff on the initial tension! I mean, wow!"

Augustus was the only one who jumped; Mike only tensed, grinding his teeth a little and digging his nails into his palms; Veruca whirled around so fast that her hair nearly hit her in the face; and Violet nodded with her back still turned to Wonka, as if his appearance right at their backs was exactly what she had expected.

Charlie beamed as his mentor applauded his own stupid puppet show.

The other three just turned (each at their own pace) to stare him down.

Wonka wasn't as tall as Mike had remembered. But then, nothing was as tall as Mike remembered anymore, thanks (incidentally) to Wonka.

And yes, he was still wearing the top-hat.

"Wilbur," Veruca drawled. "You look well."

"He's probably made the elixir of life into candy filling," Mike said.

Wonka pointed at him. "Augustus?" he guessed.

"Mike," Mike corrected. "The one you shrank."

"The one who shrank himself," Wonka said, his eyes just slightly narrowed so that a bit of passive aggression pressed against the childish veil. Then the moment passed, and he was back to the facade: "And _you're_ Violet; I can tell."

"I wonder how," Violet said brightly. Thank goodness, she wasn't bothering with niceties for Wonka.

"You killed that gum habit."

"I beat the record. Moved on to a new one."

"Yeah, I did worry that it wasn't about the gum..." Wonka trailed off, then pointed: "So, _this_ one must be Augustus."

Augustus, stony faced, pointed at the last animatronic part (a torso) before it was carried out the door. "The song was better last time."

"Hard to pull off a good sequel," Wonka said with a shrug. "I always have to top myself. And... _you_."

Veruca eyed his pointing finger with distaste.

"Your dad is trying to buy me out," Wonka said, in a tone as if it was a funny memory.

Veruca shrugged. "It's how he solves all his problems. You get used to it."

There was a quirky, mechanic WHOOP sound somewhere in the ceiling, and suddenly all the whimsical machines in the room were in motion, ferrying huge dishes of food to the table.

"Wonderful!" Wonka cheered. "Dinner is served!"

Mike checked his watch to comment on the use of the word "dinner", then didn't bother because this was going to be a long few hours.

"To be clear," Violet said, skating forward a little, "all of the food you're putting on the table is meant to be consumed by humans without drastic side-effects, right?"

"Right," Wonka said brightly.

"You really needn't be suspicious," Charlie interjected.

Mike was almost positive that Violet was halfway to the motion of flipping Bucket off before choosing to instead brush her hair back from her face and simply ignore his comment. She skated into a chair, and Mike and Augustus sat down on either side of her, and Veruca took it upon herself to sit at the _head_ of the table _and_ begin dishing her plate before Charlie or Wonka could move.

The two hosts exchanged a glance as if deciding whether it was worth telling Veruca to move. Charlie dipped his head in an indulgent way, and Wonka rolled his eyes but went to sit across from Violet while Charlie sat across from Mike.

"Tuck in, everyone," Charlie urged, already starting to pile food on his plate. "It's really good."

"Did your slaves make it?" Mike asked.

"They're not slaves," Charlie sighed.

"Right. They get paid _how_ , again?"

Violet smirked and started dishing her own plate.

"You're eating here?" Augustus said, looking deeply concerned.

"I'm not chicken," she said with a shrug.

"No, but you're blue," Mike pointed out, "from the last time you ate something in this place."

"They said the food's safe; if it isn't, I'll just sue them like I sued them last time." She finished the sentence while making hard eye contact with Wonka, whose eyes were narrowed again, despite his cryptic smile.

"So." Veruca had folded a napkin in her lap, the epitome of poshness. "Why have we been invited here, then?"

Charlie cleared his throat. "It's been a while. We've all had our own adventures, out there: Violet, Veruca, and Augustus, you've all changed your lives; Mike, you've become...even more brilliant; and Mr. Wonka and I have gone to the Space Hotel and to Minusland."

"I'm sorry..." Mike held up a hand. "You've what?"

"That's a story for later. My point is, we've all grown."

"Some of us more than others, eh, Mike?" Veruca teased.

"Anyone hear something?" Mike asked rhetorically. "I could've sworn it sounded like a _bad nut_ was talking."

Charlie chuckled. "You're all so funny."

Violet held up her fork. "Don't get the wrong idea: _We_ can joke about it because we were the victims here."

"Victims?" Wonka repeated.

"Yes," all four of them chorused adamantly.

"I told all of you very clearly what not to do," Wonka said. "You didn't listen."

 _"We_ are children, and _you_ didn't have any safeguards in place," Violet said hotly.

"Everyone watched me get attacked by squirrels," Veruca intoned, "because _you_ couldn't manage to unlock a low, easily-surpassed gate." (But her eyes lingered on Mike, then on Charlie, when she said "everyone".)

"And your slaves-"

"They're not slaves."

"-had a planned song and dance number for each of us when we had our 'accidents'," Mike added.

"Completely spontaneous," Wonka maintained.

"They improv'ed in unison?" Mike challenged.

Wonka waved a gloved finger chasteningly. "Still mumbling, I see."

"Everyone got a song?" Augustus queried.

"Oh, that's right; you were offed at the very beginning," Veruca recalled aloud. "Yes, everyone got a song and dance. I didn't hear mine very well, but I did have comically-oversized garbage dropped on me. Then they kicked my father down the chute. He said they were pitchy, before we never spoke to each other again."

"Mine was a disco sequence," Violet said. "And the Oompa-things bounced on me like I was a trampoline."

"Oh yeah," Mike acknowledged. "Did that hurt?"

"I was numb, after the initial bloating. It wasn't fun though." Violet stabbed a vegetable while again making hard eye contact with Wonka. "They treat us like objects out there, you know. We're spectacles."

"You chose to stay blue," Wonka reminded her.

"Yeah, to get back at my mother because I didn't want cosmetic surgery at ten freaking years old! If the lawsuit was too subtle for you, I still didn't love being non-consensually dyed, Mr. and Mr. Nolo Contendere!"

There was silence, for a while. Wonka had his slightly-narrowed-eye look again, Charlie looked sympathetic, Augustus looked like he thought Violet was Joan of Arc reincarnated, and Veruca, for once, didn't look bored.

Violet ate the vegetable she had skewered, and when she was done chewing, she prompted Charlie, "So, you were saying why you invited us here?"

"Right," Charlie said a little hoarsely. After clearing his throat, he continued, "We wondered if you four want to live in the factory."

And that might have been the only statement that could have surprised all of them.


	6. Chapter 6

Veruca was the first to speak again, in an anticlimactic and predictably uninvested drawl: "Yeah, sure. It's a bit small, but I could slum it here for maybe a month, I'm sure..."

"Could you not do your 'dry British humor' thing for a second?" Augustus demanded.

"No," Veruca replied. Dryly.

"Why would you want us to live here?" Violet asked. "Are the Oompas tired of being your test subjects or something, so you wanted to screw around with _us_ again?"

"No, of course n-"

"You do know we have _parents_ , right?" Mike interrupted Charlie's placative response. "How do you expect me to run it by Frank and Ellen Teavee that the guy who _gleefully_ stretched my entire body until I was two-dimensional is also maybe offering lodging? And what about _his_ mom?" (He gestured to Augustus.) "Have you seen one of _her_ interviews lately? She wants your factory torn down if she has to eat the bricks herself!"

"You watch my mother's interviews? I don't even watch my mother's interviews."

"I actually did make an edible building once," Wonka interjected brightly. "A palace. But the prince let it melt..."

"Were you inside it?" Violet and Veruca asked at the same time, then shared a smile. Mike wondered if he should start seeing Veruca as potential competition, too.

"I'm off candy," Augustus digressed. "And I'm not trying to relapse."

"Because you care about your health, or because you care about being able to say you're off candy?" Veruca asked.

"Because I know how it feels when people look at you and define you by what you eat," Augustus replied.

Perhaps a touch sympathetic, Veruca answered, "Sure. Now they define you by what you _don't_ eat. All better, right?"

"More to the point: Veruca, you said you're in?" Charlie asked hopefully.

"If you can convince all the others," Veruca replied, with a slight smile as if she knew that she had just set an impossible task and looked forward to seeing the hoops jumped through.

"You're willing to cohabitate with the squirrels that attacked you?" Mike asked.

"I'm sure they're not the same squirrels," Augustus said.

"Actually, they probably are," Veruca said shrewdly. "For a lark, I looked up the life expectancy of a squirrel a while back thinking it would cheer me up, but then I found out they can live for over 20 years, in captivity. So unless they were already quite old or Wilbur's been feeding them exploding jelly beans or some nonsense, they're probably still alive."

They stared at her for a second.

"I'm not living here," Violet said.

"Thought you said you weren't chicken," Veruca said.

"I've literally done _so much_ impressive crap since leaving this craphole, and people _still_ ask me about the factory tour," Violet said. "I'm not _moving in_ and letting them all but delete 'Olympian' from my Wikipedia description."

"Do you actually read your Wikipedia page?" Augustus asked, like he honestly just _didn't know_ what kind of ego he was dealing with here.

"Yeah. Regularly," Violet said. Because of course she did.

"Me too," Mike said, then caught himself, "I mean, mine. I also read _my_ Wikipedia page. Not yours."

"Smooth save. Very convinced," Veruca snorted.

"Shut up; it's true," Mike lied, blushing violently. He caved and grabbed a dinner roll to munch on just so he didn't have to look at anyone.

"We, er..." Charlie seemed noticeably less sure of himself than he had before; he was beginning to assume his old humble, unassuming posture. But then he glanced at his mentor and sat up straight again. "We know that it would be a difficult change for all of you. But we also believe that we would all stand to benefit. Violet, you said that you're treated like a spectacle out there. Here, we have loads of Oompa Loompas who are blue!"

Violet exhaled hard and wore an expression as if she was no longer sure her patience was going to be worth it.

"Same to you, Mike," Charlie carried on, and Mike stirred from his mortified curl-in. "There are all shapes and sizes of Oompa Loompa here."

"For clarity, a part of your pitch is that your slaves have _also_ been subjected to workplace accidents, probably untreated, and therefore we'll fit in?" Mike said. He still had his recording device, and that sort of admission should play well in court.

"No!" Charlie said, and now _he_ was blushing. "That's not...And they're not..." He huffed. "I'm saying, if you're having such a rough go out there, maybe here is a better place for you. It's been a better place for _me_."

"Weren't you, like, really really poor, though? Before coming here?" Veruca pointed out.

"Lay off him, with that," Violet defended, unexpectedly.

"He was, though," Veruca said, with just the barest hint of a self-justifying whine creeping in.

"That's none of your business," Violet insisted.

"It's alright," Charlie said, though he seemed slightly cheered by having someone stand up for him. "I don't mind; she's right. I was very lucky to even find a ticket. I only had candy once a year, before."

Veruca rolled her eyes. "You should have told me to bring my violin; I'd play a sad song for you."

"Maybe they should throw you down the chute again," Mike teased her, as payback for _her_ mockery earlier. "I don't think the first time did the trick."

"Believe me; I asked if they'd let me have a dive," Veruca sighed, playing with her food as she spoke. "Sad Violin here said no. And _you're_ only mocking me because you think Violet will approve and everyone here wants her to like them."

"I don't," Wonka interjected again. "I find her dislike for me very comforting."

"And yet you're asking me to move in," Violet said.

" _Charlie_ wants you to move in," Wonka said. "I just don't care, and I like indulging him; he needs it."

"What do _you_ want then?" Violet asked Charlie. "No fluff; just tell us straight."

"I...well...Alright." Charlie folded his hands. "I've been living in the factory for the past several years, and it's been amazing, but it, er, doesn't lend much opportunity for social interaction. I haven't spoken to anyone my own age in...probably since I moved in."

"My gosh, did you _fly us in_ to be his friends?" Mike asked Wonka.

"Not necessarily 'friends'," Charlie qualified. "I guess...company. It had to be you, because you've at least already seen the factory. It wouldn't be like bringing in someone new who might try to sell our secrets."

"Even with that reason, we are the _worst_ people to invite," Mike said. "Violet's an athlete, I require physical therapy, Augustus has his diet thing, I'm pretty sure Veruca is more or less a sociopath…"

Veruca raised her shoulders and dropped them apathetically.

"I'm in," Augustus said, ridiculously.

"Pardon?" Mike said.

"I've got to face my demons eventually."

"What's your _non_ -angsty reason?" Violet sighed. "Because if angst is your only reason, I can buy you angst on a t-shirt, no move-in required."

"If I last even a month here, then I'll know I'm definitely not going to relapse," Augustus said. "Then I can stop walking on eggshells all the time. And if I do relapse, at least my mother won't know. And I'm sure Wonka will provide some sort of punishment."

"That isn't even close to a healthy reason," Violet said.

"I'm in," Augustus reaffirmed regardless.

"What about you, Mike?" Charlie was beginning to beam, which was insufferably precious. Ugh. "We do have physical therapists here."

"Are they Oompa Loompas?" Mike asked flatly.

"Yes."

"Hard pass."

"But they're quite good at-"

" _Hard_ pass."

"That's too bad," Wonka sighed, working his knife and fork ruefully over a piece of meat. "I thought you might want to get a look at some of my newer inventions."

Uh-oh.

"Care to recall what happened _last_ time I gave a crap about one of your science projects?" Mike said, largely to cover up the fact that his curiosity was piqued. What _could_ the maniac be up to now? What insane innovation was he applying all wrong at this very moment, in this very building?

"No, no, you're right," Wonka said, clearly aware that he was in Mike's head now. "I was just being silly..."

"Fortify, Mike," Violet urged. "Don't get tempted." Oh, her hand was on his arm.

"You're the one who said that the amount of power it would take to convert energy and matter would be like nine atomic bombs," Wonka recalled, word for word, which was deeply eerie. "I'm sure you're not curious how I generate that sort of power. Not even a little."

"He's probably just got the Oompas on giant hamster wheels or something," Violet said.

"He's going to cave," Veruca said, looking at Mike's painfully-tempted expression with amusement.

"I'm..." Mike paused, and looked at Wonka's smug face. And sighed. "Are you doing anything illegal?" That would be the obvious answer, the un-tantalizing one: that he was just _stealing_ energy that was supposed to be powering a small nation or something.

"Nope," Wonka said, so clearly pleased with himself.

"I'm in; I have to know," Mike said, fully defeated. "I'll get Dad to sign a permission slip."

"Mike," Violet groaned.

"Knew it," Veruca said.

"So, Violet, you're the only hold-out," Charlie said expectantly.

"Peer pressure doesn't work on someone who thrives on being different," Mike told him, scornful at such an ill-conceived effort.

"I'm in," Violet relented grudgingly.

"Wait, really?" Mike said, doing a double-take.

"If I'm the only one who _doesn't_ move in, that'll be all anyone asks me about for the rest of my life," Violet explained sharply. Mike couldn't tell whether or not she was mad at him. If she was, that was not something he knew how to handle. "Better to just bite the bullet."

"Chew the bullet, in your case," Veruca teased.

"You know what? I changed my mind," Violet said. "I'm only in if I get to push Veruca back down the chute myself."

"Are you...joking?" Charlie hazarded. "Or...?"

"Does it matter?" Violet pushed her plate away. "I'm in, we're in, Wonka gets what he wants. All that's left is for Mike to break it to his parents."

"Can I go with you, to watch?" Veruca asked him.

"I doubt that would be constructive," Mike sighed. They really had all been suckered into this. Willy Wonka had actually convinced the four people who had more reason to hate him than anyone else on the planet to stay in his home. And crazier still...Mike couldn't help feeling that a part of him had actually wanted to be convinced. He couldn't even _almost_ wrap his head around that; if pressed he would say that it was a need for closure, but he wasn't sure that that was the entirety of it, either. Maybe he had somehow become addicted to the enhanced reality in this ridiculous place.

"So, I assume you have guest bedrooms or something?" Veruca prompted, rising from her seat and stretching. "I'd better check it out, see if I need to buy new furniture."

"Oh," Charlie said, "I can take you t-"

While they were still talking, Violet got up and took long, irate strides out of the room. Pausing only for a second to pick a direction, she set off down a random corridor, leaving the rest of them with only the sound of her roller skates.

"That's safe," Veruca said sarcastically.


End file.
